Chapter 1: Brian Krause
The neon sign flickered, casting a sickly pink glow over the posters. Leo. Jensen. Jared. Their smiling, frozen faces watched him from the walls as Kenny dropped his bag by the door. The air in his bedroom was always the same: stale Dr Pepper and the ghost of a dozen colognes, undercut by something sharper, like the air after lightning strikes.
He was hollowed out. Another day of holding space for other people’s broken pieces had left him feeling like a vacant room. The bed waited for him in the center of everything, an ornate, four-poster monstrosity of dark, carved wood. It dominated the space, a throne for his particular loneliness.
“Just… someone who doesn’t need me to fix them,” he mumbled, collapsing face-first onto the comforter. The words weren’t even a proper wish, just a tired exhale into the fabric.
The bed answered.
A deep, sub-audible hum vibrated up through the mattress into his bones. The carved patterns along the posts began to glow with a soft, phosphorescent blue light, filaments of energy tracing the outlines of roses and grotesque faces. The mechanism inside the frame whirred and clicked, a sound of precise, ancient clockwork. Kenny rolled onto his back, watching the show from beneath half-lidded eyes. He’d seen it a hundred times, but the spectacle never lost its strange charge.
The air above the empty side of the bed shimmered, like heat haze off asphalt. Particles of light, golden and insubstantial, coalesced from nothingness. They swirled, gaining density, sketching a form in the dim room. The outline of a man, lying on his side. Details rushed in—the curve of a shoulder, the line of a hip, the tousled fall of sandy brown hair. The light solidified, pulsed once, and faded.
And there he was.
Naked, eyes closed, as if simply waiting for the cue to wake up. Kenny propped himself up on an elbow, his professional detachment warring with a sharp, familiar thrill. He’d been specific in his exhaustion, his mind latching onto a particular kind of warmth. The clone’s skin looked soft in the neon blush, a sculpted lean-ness that spoke of gym hours but not obsession. He had the face of a '90s WB drama: strong jaw, a mouth made for grinning, and those eyebrows that seemed permanently angled in friendly concern.
The clone’s eyes fluttered open.
Piercing blue. They fixed on Kenny immediately, blinking once, twice, clearing a fog that wasn’t really sleep. Awareness settled in them, along with a flicker of confusion that quickly smoothed into a shy, breathtaking smile.
“Hey,” the clone said. His voice was a warm baritone, effortless.
“Hey yourself,” Kenny replied, his own voice rough with the day. “Welcome back.”
The clone—Brian, Kenny’s mind supplied, though he never called them that out loud—shifted, the sheets whispering. He didn’t try to cover himself. That initial modesty was a setting Kenny had tinkered with long ago; it felt less like intimacy and more like a medical exam. “Feels like I just left,” the clone said, his gaze touring the familiar ceiling. “But also like it’s been forever. How’s… everything?”
“The world’s still a mess. My day was long. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Kenny reached out, not for anything salacious, but to brush his fingertips over the clone’s shoulder. The skin was warm, perfect. The hum of the bed’s residual energy made it feel almost electric.
The hum of the bed’s residual energy made it feel almost electric. Brian shifted, turning onto his side to face Kenny fully. The shy smile softened into something more knowing, more fond.
“Long day, huh?” Brian asked. His voice was a low rumble in the small space between them.
“The longest. Didn’t have to be a counselor today. Just had to… exist.”
“I’m good at existing,” Brian said, and his smile turned a little wry, a little sad. He knew what he was. “It’s my primary function.”
Kenny shook his head, a silent protest against that statement. He reached out and cupped the clone’s cheek, his thumb stroking the stubble there. “Tonight, just lie down with me. That’s all. C’mere.”
He guided Brian down onto his back, then scooted closer, fitting himself against the clone’s side. He laid his head on Brian’s shoulder, his ear over the steady, invented heartbeat. He let out a long, shaky breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. One arm draped across Brian’s stomach, his hand splayed on the warm, firm plane of his chest.
For a while, they just breathed. Kenny’s hand began to move, a slow, idle exploration. His fingers traced the defined line of a pectoral, learned the landscape of a collarbone. He mapped the smooth dip between muscles, the surprising softness of the skin over a rib. It wasn’t a prelude to anything more fervent; it was a form of listening. Each breath Brian took, each slight shift, Kenny felt it through his fingertips.
“Tell me something about your day,” Brian murmured, his lips brushing Kenny’s hair.
Kenny snorted softly. “Client today talked for fifty minutes about his fear of squirrels. Not rabies, not property damage. Just… squirrels. Their beady eyes.”
Brian’s chest vibrated with a quiet chuckle. “They are kind of judgy.”
“See? You get it.” Kenny’s fingers danced up to Brian’s shoulder, squeezed the solid curve of it. “What about you? Any great thoughts from the void?”
Brian was quiet for a moment. His hand came up to cradle the back of Kenny’s head. “I think about the way the light changes in this room. The neon makes everything look like a memory. Even me.” He paused. “I like being a good memory for you.”
The words landed in Kenny’s chest, a sweet, aching weight. He closed his eyes, pressing his face into Brian’s neck. He smelled like ozone and, inexplicably, like a sun-warmed linen shirt. A perfect fabrication.
They lay like that for a long time, talking in fragments about nothing and everything—the weird stain on the ceiling, the best flavor of Pop-Tart, the existential dread of fax machines. Every so often, Kenny’s wandering hand would still, just feeling the live-wire reality of the body beside him.
Finally, Kenny sighed. The hollow feeling was gone, filled with a gentle, melancholic warmth. “I should let you go,” he whispered.
Brian’s arm tightened around him briefly. “I know.”
Kenny leaned up and kissed him, a soft, closed-mouth press of lips that tasted like potential and goodbye. “Bye, Brian.”
“Bye, Kenny.”
Kenny rolled onto his other side, facing the empty part of the bed. He heard the soft rustle as Brian sat up. He didn’t watch. He stared at the glowing grooves in the carved bedpost, waiting. A soft, soundless sigh, like the release of air from a sealed room, and he knew he was alone again. The warmth on the sheets began to fade.
The loneliness crept back in, different now. It was no longer a hollow exhaustion, but a keen, specific want. The comfort had been real, but it had also been quiet. His skin now hummed with a need for something to drown out the quiet, for a sensation fierce enough to eclipse the lingering sweetness of goodbye.
He stared at the empty space. “Someone to help me forget I’m alone at all,” he whispered to the bed. “Someone… present.”
The mechanism responded faster this time, as if it had been waiting. The hum was deeper, the blue light in the carvings flaring brighter, hotter. The air crackled, smelling of burnt sugar and charged ions. The particles that coalesced were sharper, golden-white. They swirled with more urgency, forging a form that was compact, powerful, immediately there.
Where Brian had appeared sleeping, this one arrived awake.
Taron Egerton, naked, was lying on his back, head turned towards Kenny. His hair was a messy, dark blond crop. His body was a testament to a different kind of training—boxer’s shoulders, a thick, strong neck, a torso built for kinetic impact. He blinked, and his eyes—a startlingly clear blue-green—found Kenny’s. A wide, immediate, slightly lopsided grin spread across his face.
“Well, hello,” Taron said. His voice was a rich Welsh cadence, warm and direct.
“Hi,” Kenny said, the word coming out breathless. The energy coming off this clone was different. It didn’t seep into him; it crashed against him.
“Not one for small talk, are we?” Taron’s grin turned mischievous. “I can respect that.”
Kenny didn’t answer with words. He moved, bridging the gap between them, and kissed him. It was nothing like the kiss he’d shared with Brian. This was all hunger and ignition. Taron met it instantly, his mouth hot and demanding, one hand coming up to tangle in Kenny’s hair with a firm, possessive grip. Kenny moaned into it, the last traces of melancholy burning away in the sheer chemical surge of want.
He broke the kiss, panting, and trailed his mouth down Taron’s jaw, his neck, across the dense muscle of his shoulder. He licked a stripe over a peaked nipple, then took it into his mouth, sucking hard. Taron jolted beneath him, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. His hand in Kenny’s hair tightened, not pushing him away, but holding him right there.
“Fuck,” Taron hissed.
Kenny switched his attention to the other side, using his teeth this time, a gentle scrape followed by a soothing lap of his tongue. He reveled in the way Taron’s body jumped, the way his breathing fractured. He bit down again, a little harder, and Taron cursed, his hips bucking off the mattress. The response was electric, raw. This was a dialogue of nerve endings, pure and simple.
Kenny worked his way back up, claiming Taron’s mouth again, swallowing his groans. He could feel the hard line of Taron’s cock against his thigh, and he ground down against it, a slow, maddening roll of his hips. Taron’s hands were everywhere—gripping his waist, sliding down to cup his ass, pulling him closer so their bodies aligned, skin to hot skin.
“You feel…” Taron breathed against his lips.
“I know,” Kenny cut him off. He didn’t need poetry. He needed friction, force, forgetting. “Just… please.”
Taron seemed to understand. He rolled them over in one smooth, powerful motion, pinning Kenny beneath him. The weight was glorious, anchoring. Kenny looked up, saw the focused intensity in those heterochromatic eyes, the flush on Taron’s cheeks, and he surrendered to it completely. He was the hollow space waiting to be filled.
Taron reached for the lube in the bedside drawer, his movements efficient, his gaze never leaving Kenny’s face. The preparation was swift, thorough, and Kenny pushed back against his fingers, urging him on, his own need a white-noise roar in his ears.
When Taron finally pressed into him, it was with a controlled, inexorable force that stole the air from Kenny’s lungs. He cried out, his back arching, his fingers digging into the thick muscle of Taron’s shoulders. Taron stilled, letting him adjust, his forehead damp against Kenny’s temple.
“Okay?” he growled.
“Don’t stop,” Kenny begged, the words ragged. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Taron didn’t. He set a deep, punishing rhythm, each thrust a calculated strike against the core of Kenny’s loneliness. Kenny wrapped his legs around Taron’s waist, holding on as the world narrowed to the slap of skin, the guttural sounds torn from Taron’s throat, the blinding point of connection where they were joined. He chanted nonsense, pleas, and profanity into the charged air, each drive pushing him higher, further from thought, from memory, from everything but this synthetic, spectacular now.
It crested fast and hard, a tsunami that broke over Kenny without warning, wracking his body with silent, breathless convulsions. Taron followed seconds later, his rhythm breaking into a final, shuddering plunge, a low roar muffled against Kenny’s neck.
The aftermath was a different kind of silence. The heavy panting, the slow disengagement. Taron collapsed beside him, his sweat-slick body radiating heat. Kenny stared at the ceiling, the neon DREAMS ARE REAL (PROBABLY) sign blurring in his vision. The hollow feeling was gone, but in its place was a spent, buzzing static.
Taron turned his head, his expression loose and sated. “That was…”
“Yeah,” Kenny interrupted softly. He didn’t look over. He just listened to the bed’s internal mechanics whirring down, a quiet ticking returning to the room. He felt the warmth beside him begin its gradual, inevitable fade.